


Rise up and Fight

by Jadesfire2808 (Jadesfire)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 00:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire2808
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"A little I'm hurt, but yet not slayne. I'll but lye down and bleed awhile, and then I'll rise and fight again."</i>  Sir Andrew Barton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rise up and Fight

**Author's Note:**

> All technical terms are from [this site](http://www.martialartsresource.com/anonftp/pub/eskrima/digests/fmafaq.htm#1.0%20OVERVIEW%20OF%20THE%20FMA).

**_Labang patayo_** Fighting stance

John arrives at the gym early, putting his bag on the bench and sitting to swap his boots for sneakers. He's stretching when Teyla arrives, her eyes surrounded by dark rings and her steps slow and careful. She slips out of her shoes and the two of them warm up side by side, moving in silence and not meeting each other's gaze.

By the time they move onto the stick-fighting, Teyla seems to have woken up a little, and she moves with something close to her usual grace, heavy skirt swinging as she dances around him. John finds himself struggling to keep up, and while that's not exactly unusual, today, it's frustrating. He tries to push harder, faster, looking for openings in her guard, anything he can use. After two and a half years of training, he's not exactly slow, but next to Teyla he still feels sluggish and clumsy. It's worse because he knows the problem is in his head, not his body.

He's blocking with his right hand, swinging the rod with his left as he moves round for a new attack, when he trips, actually trips over his own feet. By twisting in mid-air, he manages to come down on his shoulder rather than his face, and he rolls over quickly, sticks raised and crossed, ready to block the next attack.

Teyla is standing three feet away, as though frozen in time at the moment he fell. When he frowns up at her, she turns her head away, dropping out of the fighting stance and shifting both sticks to one hand.

"I am sorry, John," she says, coming over to help him up, and it takes him a moment to realize that he still has his own sticks raised. "I do not think this is a good idea today."

"I'm fine," he says quickly, twirling one wrist and then other, stretching out his neck and rolling his shoulder. It aches a little, but he's not really hurting. Not yet.

Teyla seems unconvinced, but she steps away, gathering herself before lifting the sticks again, her posture obviously defensive, waiting for John. He obliges by feinting towards her, stopping just short of a hit and trying to get under her guard. It doesn't work, of course, and he finds himself retreating, having to concentrate on just blocking as each strike gets harder. As she forces him backwards, his heel slips off the edge of the mat and he's falling again, dropping the sticks and going down hard, and alright, that one hurt.

Looking down at him, her hair falling in her face and her sticks held loosely, Teyla shakes her head.

"I do not want to hurt you, John. There is enough pain here already."

Then she turns, collects her shoes and leaves the gym without looking back. John manages to sit up, leaning over to collect one stick and then the other. When he stands, the whole of his lower back lets him know how much it hates him, and he's going to have bruises on his ass for days. Ignoring the aches, he bends and stretches, easing through the worst of it until he can walk without wincing. Then he slowly starts to move through the basic forms, from the first one that Teyla taught him to the ones he's sure he's still getting wrong.

He's sweating by the time he finishes, and it feels good. There isn't a muscle in his body that isn't protesting, although the screams from his lower back are enough to distract him from the ache in his shoulders and knees. His thighs are trembling, and he goes over to the bench, pulling out his bottle of water and sitting down gingerly, fidgeting until he can get vaguely comfortable. He waits until the sweat on his forearms has dried and he's half-finished the bottle of water.

Then he gets up and starts again.

 

**_Avanta_ Advance**

He doesn't sleep well, although he's not sure whether that's because of the pain or despite it. He'd been exhausted by the time he fell into bed, only leaving the gym when he'd been forced to by the arrival of Ronon and a group of marines. None of them had spoken to him beyond a polite acknowledgement, and he'd felt Ronon's eyes on him as he packed up his stuff. A scalding shower probably stopped him from doing any serious damage, but it's hard to get his back to believe that when he wakes up aching.

Another hot shower, a powerbar and some serious stretching later, he makes his way back down to the gym. Teyla is waiting for him this time, already standing in the center of the mat, lightly swinging her sticks.

"If you are determined to hurt yourself," she says as he drops his bag, "I would rather you did not do so alone."

He nods, pulling out his sticks and rolling his shoulders. Every joint feels stiff, and he knows he's going to take a beating from the look on Teyla's face. He wonders if she spoke to Ronon.

After the fifth time of hitting the mat, he calls a time out and carefully limps over to his bag, pulling out the water bottle and swigging gratefully. Teyla barely looks warm. When he's satisfied he can do so without embarrassing himself more than usual, he goes back to the mat, and they start again, the sound of wood on wood unnaturally loud in the quiet gym. The whole city has been too quiet for the last two days. John can feel the silence everywhere he goes, and the thought distracts him enough for Teyla to get under his guard, switching her grip on the stick so that she can hit the center of his chest with the heel of her hand.

He goes down in an ungainly sprawl, and lies there for a moment, breathing hard and wondering if his face is as red as it feels. He's hot, more so than usual, and he's not sure if it's because of yesterday's workout or if someone's just turned up the temperature in here. Before he can stop himself, he's running a hand over his forehead and saying,

"When we're done, I'm going to get Rodney to have a look at the environmental systems."

Once said, the words can't be taken back, and he stares at the floor, feeling rather than seeing Teyla's reaction. He can't bring himself to look up when her shadow falls across him, nor when she crouches next to him, although he can see from the corner of his eye that her head is tilted and her eyes are shining.

"It is not especially warm in here, John," she says, and he's been noticing that, the way she keeps using his name lately, more than usual. He can't work out whether it's for her sake or his. "Perhaps we should stop."

"No," he says swiftly, hoarsely. "I'm just a little warm, is all."

Still not quite looking at her, he sits up, leaning over to tug at his laces, then he pulls off his sneakers and socks, throwing them in the general direction of his bag. Teyla moves away so that he can stand up, and the floor is cool beneath his feet, the chill traveling straight up his legs and spine, making him feel feverish.

Lifting his sticks, he nods to Teyla. "Let's keep going."

 

**_Atras_ Retreat**

Teyla makes him stop to have lunch, and as much as he'd rather just grab something and head back to his room, he can tell from the look on her face that that's not good enough. She follows him down the lunch line, her steady gaze guilting him into taking a sandwich and an apple.

He skips the blue jello.

Ronon is sitting on the other side of the mess, with Zelenka opposite him. Neither of them seem to be talking, and John's quite happy to leave them to their silence, except Teyla is none-too-subtly herding him in their direction, and he doesn't have the energy to resist.

No one at their table speaks for a long time, and Sheppard tries to keep his mouth full of sandwich to maintain his excuse. But Zelenka looks as terrible as Sheppard feels, his glasses smudged and his eyes dark and hooded. It's Teyla who breaks the silence, turning her head to look at Zelenka and frowning.

"Have you slept at all?" she asks, and Zelenka shakes his head.

"Possibly. I lie down and close my eyes, but-" His shrug is remarkably eloquent, especially to three people who understand exactly what he's talking about. "I have spent much time look at the _záznam_, er, the footage from the MALP."

"Again?" Teyla makes a disapproving noise, and Zelenka smiles sadly.

"I know, I know, but I keep thinking that there must be something." He gestures as he speaks, spoon gleaming under the bright mess lights. "I've been able to tell that the MALP was inverted on arrival."

"The 'gate was upside-down?" Ronon asks, frowning. "Never seen that before."

"It must have been the force of the explosion. The Stargate was buried by it, and we were only able to get the MALP through because the," he gestures again, searching for the word and Sheppard has to look away, the waving hands one reminder too many.

Eventually, Teyla works out what Zelenka's trying to say. "When the Stargate opened, it provided a pocket of space for the MALP?"

"_Ano_, exactly." Zelenka shrugs, his face losing its animation. "There was much radioactivity in the surrounding earth. Rodney was right about the Genii building dirty bombs."

"'scuse me." John pushes his chair back with more force than necessary, nearly toppling it over. He's out of the mess before he can find out if it actually falls, hurrying down the corridors at double-time, not quite running because there are too many people about at this time of day.

His quarters seem miles away, but suddenly he's there, locking the door behind him and just making it to the bathroom before he throws up.

 

**_Ikot_ Turn, spin**

He feels light headed as he makes his way down to his office. It's the last place he wants to be, but Atlantis goes on regardless, and if he doesn't get things signed and sorted, Lorne'll-

Well, if he's honest, Lorne will probably just forge his signature and get on with things, but still. It gives John something to do that won't cause him actual bodily harm, which is probably a good idea at this point.

Lorne is in the office when John arrives, putting some more papers on top of the pile and looking at them thoughtfully. He turns the same look on John, who's stopped dead in the doorway, thrown by the sudden requirement to actually talk to someone. Fortunately, Lorne seems willing to do the heavy-lifting in this conversation.

"There's just some stuff to sign, some new directives, orders, the usual," he says, sticking his hands in his pockets and moving backwards until he's leaning against the wall. It gives John enough space to come into the room without coming too close, and it's easier once there's a desk between them.

Lorne goes on, "The SGC is asking for a report on P3T-499. Preferably yesterday."

John nods, not lifting his eyes from the papers as he asks, "When does the Daedalus get here?"

"Two days, maybe three depending how long they're at Laban for." If Lorne sees John's eyes flicker at the name, he doesn't say anything. "They're going to let us know when they leave, and they'll be here eighteen hours after that."

"Right. Thanks, Major." John doesn't look up, hoping that Lorne will just leave. After a moment's silence, he hears footsteps crossing the room, then Lorne pauses in front of John's desk, and when John risks an upwards glance, Lorne is pulling something out of a jacket pocket.

"Look, sir, it's not really my place but…" He trails off, putting something on the desk in front of John. "Back at the SGC, after missions like that? No one knows what the hell they're meant to write in a report. So we started recording them. Just talking, you know? Someone writes it up for you later, someone who wasn't there. They'll put it in official language and all that. One less thing for you to have to do, and no-one gets yelled at by the brass."

Carefully, John reaches out and runs a finger over the dictaphone. "Elizabeth's been trying to get me to go see Heightmeyer," he says, grimacing. "Maybe I'll just let her have this instead."

"Sounds like a plan, sir."

After Lorne's gone, John sits and stares at the dictaphone. It's a good idea, probably, not having to find the official language for 'I screwed up and one of my team died'. He managed it for Sumner, but he'd only known the man twenty-four hours. He managed it for Ford, but then he hadn't really believed Ford was dead. And maybe that's the way to go with this one, because if anyone could survive the simultaneous explosion of ten dirty bombs, it was Rodney.

He figures out the controls after a moment, pushes the 'record' button and says, "This is the mission report for P3T-499. The only town on the planet is- was called Laban. A couple of thousand people, small-time traders, nothing special. Rodney – Doctor McKay – picked up some energy readings under the town, and when he followed them up, we found a hatch leading down to a Genii bunker."

The dictaphone is digital, and he stares at the numbers ticking past as he tries to work out what he's meant to say next. He wonders if anyone's gone to see the people of Laban at the Alpha Site, managed to apologize to them for blowing up their town. Maybe he should go. He should check with Elizabeth.

Clearing his throat, and shaking his head to try and clear it, he starts again. "Once inside, we found-" He runs out of words, because he's not seeing the dark, dank bunker, with its seemingly endless corridors and rooms packed with Genii technology. He's seeing Rodney, working frantically over one of the computers, trying to stop the bombs from going off, buying them enough time to get out, wrestling with the detonation sequence, fighting the program that controls the explosions, still there when the program catches up with him and-

John drops the dictaphone, blinking against the mental image and feeling the ache in his jaw where he's clenched his teeth tight against the words. He reaches down, turns off the dictaphone and slowly gets to his feet.

There's no way he's up to more sparring, but a long run sounds pretty good right now. Maybe if he runs far enough, fast enough, wears himself out enough, he'll be able to sleep tonight without that image haunting his dreams.

 

**_Pansariling supporta_ Self-defence**

John avoids the gym the next day, locking his office door and plowing through the paperwork. His back aches and his eyes sting but he carries on, typing up reports and signing his name so many times that his fingers cramp. He does all the things he normally leaves to Lorne: duty rosters, requisitions, living quarters assignments, complaints, arguments, everything. By the time he finishes, he knows more about the inner workings of Atlantis than he feels he should, and the dictaphone is still sitting on the edge of his desk, shiny and silent.

He ignores it, ducking out of the office just long enough to grab some food, before coming back and starting to wade through mission reports that have been piling up. This time, he gets halfway through the backlog before he has to stop, the words on the screen burning his eyes.

He'd braced himself when he'd checked his email, knowing that at least half the contents of his inbox were going to have the sender 'R. McKay'. But he'd forgotten that Rodney had turned in mission reports as well, ones that John never normally read because he'd been there. He stares at the report, headed with Rodney's name, the date, just a few weeks ago. It's been three days since they ran from Laban, and it'll be another two, at least, before Rodney's brought back. If there's anything to bring back.

Moving before he can change his mind, John reaches out and grabs the dictaphone, fumbling to turn it on and taking a long, shuddering breath before saying, "We found the main computer. The Genii had got hold of another Wraith datacore somehow, and hooked it into their system. Rodney started to hack in, and he thought he was getting somewhere, except suddenly everything began to light up and everything started to go wrong."

There was an understatement. Before then, John hadn't heard Rodney's 'dammit this time we're really going to die' voice for a while. He stops for a moment, remembering Rodney's pale face, lit by flashing lights as he began to speak, babbling about bombs and radiation and how the Genii had jury-rigged the Wraith program to keep cycling the detonation codes and how no, there really wasn't anything he could do. Except, of course, there was something he could do.

"Rodney managed to get into the detonation program," John says, surprised how calm he sounds. "He said he could buy us a bit more time, time to evacuate the town. Teyla and Ronon went to start warning people, and I told them to send everyone to the Alpha site. I stayed behind with Rodney to see if I could help."

Oh yeah. He'd done a great job of that one, hadn't he? He presses 'stop', staring at the computer screen for a long, long time, until his vision begins to blur and his head starts to throb. Carefully setting the dictaphone down, he goes back to reading, working his way through every report filed in the past six weeks, and only stopping when he can't keep his eyes open any more.

When he lies down in his quarters that night, his mind is full of words and gate addresses and lists of supplies, and Rodney's voice, keeping up a low, steady stream of words until John falls asleep.

 

**_Pababang suntok_ Lower punch**

In the morning, his head aches but most of his body seems grateful for the day's rest, and John decides a workout is a good plan. He breakfasts in the mess, sitting alone at his table, and he's grateful that no one tries to talk to him. Lorne gives him a nod, Zelenka trails past looking like death warmed over, and the server gives him an extra helping of reconstituted egg. When there's laughing from one of the corner tables, he manages not to flinch, not to glare at them and tell them to shut the hell up and don't they have any respect for the dead? Instead, he stows his tray and heads down to the gym.

Teyla and Ronon are there sparring, and he stands in the doorway watching for a while, half-admiring, half-jealous, topped off with a big helping of guilt, because Rodney was their teammate too, and he's barely said a word to them in two days. When the round finishes, Ronon turns to him, eyebrow raised.

"You just gonna stand there?"

"Don't want to break up the party," John says, but he comes in anyway, taking off his boots and jacket, and standing barefoot, the way he did when he and Teyla fought before. Ronon doesn't comment, just starts circling, the way he always does before he fights, like a big cat on the prowl.

By silent agreement, John warms up with Teyla, going through basic steps, their sticks barely touching and their movements slow at first. He's not too stiff today, although he still feels awkward next to her, and his focus is completely off. They start to speed up, striking with more confidence as they test each other's responses. John gradually finds his focus, loses himself in the movement, in the place where all he has to do is react, anticipate where the next blow will come from and where he's going to strike next. It's easy and fluid, and he's only peripherally aware of Ronon, of the gym around him, the coolness of the mat under his feet and of his own grunts of effort as he fends Teyla off, managing a few hits of his own that make her retreat, regrouping to come at him again.

"Had enough yet?" Ronon's voice breaks John's concentration, and he steps back, trusting that Teyla's reflexes will prevent her hitting him while his guard's down. Half-smiling, John shrugs.

"You want a go?"

He swaps the bantos rods for a heavier stick, one that won't crack under Ronon's onslaught. And it is an onslaught, because if John thought he was angry, Ronon is a force of nature. John finds himself ducking and weaving, just trying to stay on his feet and take the hits on his stick rather than his body. They part and clash, part and clash, dancing round each other only to fling themselves back together again. Some hits land, others miss, and when Ronon snarls, really snarls at him, John forces himself not to snarl back, shaking his head and retreating, raising his free hand to slow Ronon down as well.

They're both dripping with sweat, and when Ronon pulls his shirt off, John decides that's a good idea, dropping the damp t-shirt in the corner and rubbing his slippery palm on his pants. When he turns back, Ronon has taken his shoes off as well, and Teyla has joined him on the mat. John tilts his head, not sure what to make of that. But Teyla's expression forestalls any argument, and Ronon just shrugs, so he retrieves his rods and nods for them to start.

In the field, they take on multiple opponents all the time, of course, but he's never tried it here, not like this, and not with two people as fast as Ronon and Teyla. He takes hits to his shoulders and sides, grunting as a stick makes contact with his left hip and stumbling when Ronon catches him on the back with enough force to bruise. His half-fall takes him off the mat, and the floor feels too hard and cold under his feet. He's breathing hard, trying to replay the last two minutes in his head and coming up empty. It's a good, blank feeling and he wants it to last for longer.

Once he's on his way to getting his breath back, he turns to see that Ronon and Teyla are still going, their movements almost too fast for him to follow, and there's something wrong with the way they're fighting, the intensity of it, the power in each blow that's making him flinch and wonder how the sticks don't break. He catches a glimpse of Ronon's face, and he knows this has to stop this, now.

He steps back on the mat, waiting for the right moment, then he closes in, pushing his own sticks into the gap between them.

"Enough," he says, his voice sounding unnaturally loud. "What the hell is this?"

Teyla looks away and Ronon glowers down at him. Neither of them speak and it's not often that John gets to feel like the mature one, but right now, he knows that he has to be.

"Look, we're all upset. I get that. And taking it out on sparring, well, that's probably better than most of the other things we could be doing. But the idea isn't to kill each other in the process." He shakes his head, uncomfortable and awkward. Teyla's hair is plastered to her forehead and the skin below and above her tank top is shining. Ronon's not much better, and when he stretches, John can see every muscle flex, gleaming under the lights. John himself just feels cold, feels the sweat drying across his chest and back, feels the itch of the hair at the nape of his neck. Suddenly self-conscious, he goes to retrieve his t-shirt, and pulls it on despite the uncomfortable dampness.

Since neither Ronon nor Teyla seem inclined to talk, he tries again, reminding himself that this is about the team, not him. "Let's go get a drink," he says, walking towards his bag and shoes. "I think we've had enough for one day."

"John," Teyla says, and he's not used to hearing her sound so uncertain, so nervous. "John, I- we have been wondering. What will happen when the Daedalus gets here? I mean-"

"I know what you mean," John says quickly, cutting her short. "I think Elizabeth will want to…do something here. But he's got a sister on Earth, so…" He stops himself, hoping Teyla can fill in the blanks.

Ronon nods. "That's what we thought. You gonna say something?"

John hasn't thought about that, the same way he hasn't thought about anything else over the last three days, so he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe."

"I know it will be hard, John," Teyla says, her voice gentle. "But you were his friend as well as his leader. It should be you who speaks for him."

"I'm the last person he'd want to-" This time when he stops, he can sense Teyla's confusion, Ronon's frown, although he can't bring himself to look at either of them.

It's Ronon who voices the question, the one that John doesn't want to answer. "What are you talking about?"

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, hearing it all over again. Rodney's voice, tense even over the radio, as John helped Ronon and Teyla evacuate the town. The sense of relief when Rodney said, _I know how to stop the bombs going off_, then the cold knot in his stomach when it was followed up with, _I can't leave it. If I leave, it'll blow._

When he opens his eyes, Teyla and Ronon are watching him, waiting for him to speak. Slowly, he says, "He couldn't tell how long the countdown was."

"We know that, John," Teyla says, obviously trying to help him through the worst of it, not realizing that's still to come. "We know that he chose to stay, to interrupt the program so that he could guarantee us the time we needed."

"No." John's voice is hoarse, harsh. "There might have been enough time anyway. But it was too great a risk, too many people to get to the 'gate." He takes another deep breath. "I told him to stay. I _ordered_ him to stay." His lips are dry, almost cracking as he says simply, "I killed him."

He turns and walks out of the gym without looking back.

 

**_Hambalos_ Full body strike**

John's woken at five the next morning by someone banging on his door. Staggering a little, he crosses the room and opens it, belatedly realizing that he fell asleep in his uniform last night, and that running his hands through his hair is not the best way to straighten it out.

"What?" he says as the door slides open, revealing a harassed looking Zelenka on the other side. "Why didn't you use the radio?"

"Radio is down. Also sensors." Zelenka says shortly, and suddenly John is awake, looking for his shoes and nodding along to the half-Czech, half-English, half-garbled explanation.

Ten minutes later, he's sitting in the control chair, trying to help Zelenka figure out why upgrading the weapons systems has shorted out the comms. Atlantis isn't doing badly for a ten thousand year old city, but they've had to hotwire, reroute and cobble things together so many times over the years that sometimes John's surprised that the doors actually open.

An hour later, and Zelenka's still no closer to figuring out the problem, although long and short range sensors are back online, which is definitely a good thing. Pushing hair out of his face, Zelenka says,

"Rodney rewrote the comm programs three times last year, trying to avoid something like this. I do not think I can do the same."

"Sure you can," John says, with a conviction he doesn't feel. "Is it alright if I-" He brings the chair back up to a sitting position and nods towards the door.

"What? Oh, yes, of course, Colonel. Thank you. I will let you know when we have something." Waving vaguely, Zelenka ducks back under a console.

It feels too quiet in the control room, even for six in the morning, without the constant radio chatter. Elizabeth gives John a tight smile, and he realizes it's days since he's seen her, and that she was Rodney's friend too. Before he can say anything, she nods to the screen on the other side of the room.

"We're picking up the Daedalus, or what I hope is the Daedalus," she says dryly. "They should be here in fourteen hours or so, but we can't contact them yet, obviously."

"Obviously. Zelenka's working on it, but he's got to find his way through three years of McKay patches and programming. It could take him a while."

Elizabeth nods. "Fine." She pauses, then adds, "I want to hold a senior staff meeting tomorrow at eleven hundred. Alright?"

"Yeah." He turns away, watching the small blip that is the Daedalus move across the sensor screen. "I'll get the marines organized into a pony express, get things moving around here while we don't have radios. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my office."

The marine-pony express works fairly well, and they only have one game of Telephone, when someone interprets 'ask Colonel Sheppard to come to the chair room' as 'some time in the next few weeks', and he has to deal with an irate Zelenka when he finally ambles down there.

It's getting well into the evening, and they're still not making progress on why the comms aren't working, although Zelenka now thinks it has more to do with power conduits than control pathways, and he's in the middle of explaining why, when a breathless marine careens round the corner, nearly falling over as he tries to stop, salute and get his message out all in one go.

"Colonel Sheppard. You need to get to the infirmary, right now." When John raises an eyebrow, the corporal seems to realize that he hasn't exactly used the right tone to address his CO. "Er…"

"It's alright." John nods to Zelenka, then sets off for the infirmary at a gentle trot, the marine trailing behind him. "Do I get to know why I'm needed in the infirmary?"

"Doctor Weir said it was urgent, sir. The Daedalus just arrived."

There's not enough time to think about that, not properly, not before John's in the transporter and pressing the infirmary's location. The corridor is bustling with people, all of whom fall silent as he passes, moving out of his way as he starts to move faster. He can feel the tension in the air, and it makes him break into a run, only to come to a skidding stop when he spots Teyla. She's standing just inside the infirmary, and when she turns to look at him, he can see that her eyes are shining.

"Teyla?" he asks, and she shakes her head, looking back into the infirmary, wrapping her arms around herself.

At first, he thinks it's something to do with Ronon, and that the arrival of the Daedalus is just a coincidence. Then he hears voices from behind a screen a few beds away and he freezes. When he tries to move, his feet seem to have gotten stuck to the floor, and he has to consciously think about lifting them, walking slowly and clumsily along the row of beds until he can see round the screen.

Caldwell and Elizabeth are standing by the bed, as is Carson and a couple of nurses whose names John used to know.

Rodney is lying on the bed. He's pale and tired-looking, his hair sticking up at odd angles and he doesn't look like he's shaved in days. The hands that are resting on the blanket are covered in bandages and there's another one on his neck, another on the side of his head.

He's alive.

John opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, and he's left standing there, mouth open, staring at Rodney, until Rodney looks up and meets his eyes. And smiles.

John's mouth snaps shut and he breathes hard, trying to get enough air into his lungs to stop him feeling so light-headed.

"Hey." Rodney plucks at the blanket for a moment, then raises an eyebrow expectantly. "Sheppard?"

"Yeah." Then John can smile, really properly smile, smiling so hard that his cheeks start to hurt, and he sees Rodney's smile broaden into a matching grin. "Yeah."

 

**_Handa_ Ready**

John feels like he's spent most of the last week in the gym, and he has the bruises to prove it. He's sparring with Ronon, gently this time, trying out some new moves that he still can't quite master, when Ronon stops, nodding towards the doorway.

Rodney's there, back in his uniform, shaved and cleaned up and looking like something approaching his usual self. He's still pale and there are deep shadows under his eyes, but he's standing upright under his own steam, which has to count for something. He cringes away a little as Ronon goes to slap him on the shoulder, grimacing as Ronon laughs and just pats him gently. John takes the moment to put his stick back in his pack and find his water bottle. It's still too hot in here.

"So," Rodney says, rocking from toe to heel and back again.

"Yeah." John takes a long drink, then rolls the bottle between his palms. "How you doing?"

"Oh, not too bad. Carson's fairly sure there should be no long term effects from a few days of surviving on MREs and Genii rations. Being buried alive hasn't done much for the old claustrophobia, but since I don't plan on doing that again-"

"Rodney." When Rodney falls silent, John's not sure what he was going to say, and instead asks, "How did you-"

"Survive ten large explosions?" There's a smugness to Rodney's expression that John's almost pathetically grateful to see. "Easily, since there were, in fact, only two large explosions."

John frowns. "Run that by me again?"

"Well, when I realized I wasn't going to be able to keep beating the Wraith program indefinitely, I decided I had to trick it, so I managed to convince it that there were, in fact, only two bombs." Rodney's hands are moving, drawing lines and circles in the air. "Of course, with my luck, one of them was right by the Stargate and the other destabilized the bunker enough that I was stuck. I tried to dig myself out, but, well." He holds his hands still for a moment, smiling ruefully. "So I concentrated on just trying to survive. There was a water supply, and I worked out that I had enough food for two weeks if I really stretched it out. I set up a distress beacon and just…waited."

In the dark, John hears, although Rodney doesn't say it. For six days.

Rodney's still talking, looking thoughtfully at his hands, wiggling his bandaged fingers. "Now I just have to figure how to re-bandage these after my next shower. Carson says I should be fit for duty in a week or so."

"Right." The word's not much more than a whisper, and John still can't quite seem to meet Rodney's eye.

"Well don't sound too enthusiastic, whatever you do." Rodney sticks his hands in his pockets and glares at him, all the time rocking back and forth, back and forth.

"I just meant…" John looks down at his water bottle rolling between his palms, back and forth in time with Rodney's swaying.

"What is this?" There's a lot of hurt in Rodney's voice, and John doesn't look up at him, concentrating on bending and tucking the bottle back into his bag. He can hear the moment when Rodney gets it, the intake of breath followed by a short, annoyed exhalation.

"Oh for the love of- Seriously, this is what all the beating yourself up has been about? And don't bother saying anything because I talked to Teyla, and it still counts as beating yourself up even if you get her and Ronon to do it for you. I'm the one who spent days, _days_, trapped in a really, really small space surviving on Genii food which is not, I've got to tell you, something you want to try any time soon, so excuse me if I think this one is kind of about _me_ rather than John 'save the day' Sheppard, because you know, this time-"

"I gave the order, Rodney." Heightmeyer would probably tell him that saying it out loud should make him feel better. It doesn't.

"Yeah, because I always take so much notice of what you say."

In the moment of silence, John knows Rodney's answering what he didn't say, that the phrase 'left behind' is never going to pass between them, and he's grateful enough to smile.

"I hadn't noticed that," he says instead, looking up at last, and seeing Rodney's gentle smile, the same one from the infirmary, simple and honest. "You had dinner?" he asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading towards the door.

"Not yet."

"It's mystery meatloaf tonight."

"Great."

"Great?"

"Listen, if all you'd had to eat for the past two days were Genii rations, mystery meatloaf would sound like cordon bleu cookery."

Their shoulders bump as they turn the corner, and they fall into step as they make their way down the corridor, Rodney holding forth about the superiority of MREs over the rubbish the Genii left for their men and John listening, contradicting and grinning.

Mostly grinning.

* * *

  
_"True friendship is like sound health; the value of it is seldom known until it is lost."_  
Charles Caleb Colton


End file.
